Thomas Barrow's Christmas Carol
by robyn redhead
Summary: A re-telling of the festive classic. Thomas Barrow is visited by three ghosts on Christmas Eve in a hope to make him see the error of his ways. Storyline belongs to Mr Charles Dickens and the characters to Julian Fellowes. Please read and review!


Robyn Owen

Thomas Barrow's Christmas Carol

STAVE I

William was dead, to begin with. Thomas had no doubt whatsoever that that was fact. He had practically seen the young man die right in front of him. He had virtually seen his death with his own eyes, and Thomas believed his own eyes were good for anything he chose to position them upon.

Young William was dead as a doornail.

Not, of course, that I am suggesting that I know what is especially dead about a doornail, or any other nail for that matter. Alas! It is not for us to question the similes of the previous generation, only to use them. The expression itself could have been perhaps more appropriate if it referred to a coffin nail, as this is possibly the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. Heavens! How did I get on to discussing ironmongery? Ah yes, William, poor boy, was dead as a doornail.

It is most important that it is fully understood by all that William was dead. Not because I wish to be morbid and dwell upon those passed, but because without this information at the forefront of one's mind, this story cannot hope to be at all as interesting or exciting as it endeavours and deserves to be. But yes, William was, indeed, dead.

And Thomas knew that William was dead? Of course he did! There was never any question in the footman's mind that his old colleague was dead and gone. And had been for quite some time, in fact. The anniversary of the armistice day had come and gone, and Christmas was approaching once more. Thomas hated Christmas more than any other time of the year. His person was cold and hard, and seemed to rebel against any sort of warmth or friendliness that tried to penetrate it. Even Christmas, that presented good-will in its most persistent form, was not enough to turn Thomas's sneer into a smile of warmth.

Everybody at Downton knew this of Thomas, and consequently, nobody ever stopped him in the corridor to greet him, no one ever included him in their cheerful meal-time conversations. True, he had Miss O'Brien, and she had her uses, but she was mostly just there so that neither would look completely alone. Thomas knew that O'Brien had no more affection for him, than he had for her! Indeed, he only spent time with her in order to give an illusion of power and popularity. The both seemed to have the same, evil, thoughts and ideas, and it appeared only appropriate that they should spend time together. But, apart from this scarcely acquaintance, Thomas had nobody.

But what did he care! It was exactly the life Thomas liked. To edge his way along the crowded path of joy and goodwill that presents itself in general human life, warning all sympathy to keep its distance.

On this cold, dark Christmas Eve our story starts, Thomas was sat at the scrubbed, wooden kitchen table, surveying the object in question with the utmost scrutiny, in an attempt to ignore the calls and cries of people having fun. The small window on one side of the room was completely in shadow, for the winter now brought nights upon as early as 3 o'clock. However, should Thomas have been able to see outside the window, he would have seen a very bleak, very miserable evening. This would have most likely cheered him up immensely, for Thomas liked anything bleak, or miserable. It was extremely foggy too, and to have seen the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

Thomas resented the small fire that Mrs Patmore had set in the grate in the corner of the room, emitting only the slightest of warmth into the bitterly cold evening. He knew that, upstairs, fires would be blazing at full blast, heating the rooms well, whereas down there, they were left shivering and freezing. The fact that he was doing nothing apart from sitting probably had a great deal to do with Thomas's low temperature, but he was the last person to admit when something was his fault, and besides, he would rather sit there and freeze than join in the festivities in the adjoining room.

"A very Merry Christmas, Thomas!" cried a ridiculously cheery voice. It was Daisy, the young scullery maid. She had come in upon Thomas so quickly that this was the first imitation he had had of her approach.

"Bah humbug," was Thomas's reply, grumpily.

Daisy herself was in such a state of excitement and cheer that she literally glowed; her eyes were bright and sparkled, and her cheeks were flushed with pleasure.

"Christmas a humbug?" her face falling slightly. "You can't surely mean that Thomas?"

"I do," said Thomas, continuing to stare dully at the table. "Merry Christmas indeed! What right do we have to be merry? What _reason_ do we have to be merry?"

"Oh, come on Thomas. Don't be cross!" said Daisy.

"No," he said, simply. "What else can I be when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas! What's Christmas time to everyone but a time for them to rejoice in the riches and luxuries that they have? While we find ourselves a year older, but not an hour richer, and forgotten about down here. If I could work my will," continued Thomas indignantly and darkly, "every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on their lips, should be boiled with their own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through their heart. They should!"

"Thomas!" cried Daisy, shocked.

"Daisy, keep Christmas in your way, and let me keep it in mine."

"Keep it?" said Daisy. "But you do not keep it at all!"

"Then let it be so." Thomas said, shortly. "Christmas will never do you any good! It has _never_ done anybody any good, least of all people like you and me!"

"But," said Daisy, pleadingly. "Christmas_ is_ good, Thomas. It's kind, and charitable, and pleasant, and forgiving and...just the most amazing time of year ever! Everybody's always really kind to each other, and although I've never gained anything from Christmas, I believe that it _has_ done me good! God bless Christmas, is all I can say!"

Thomas wasn't sure what to say to this, so said nothing at all, angered by Daisy's high spirited words. He made a non-committal sound in his throat that sounded rather like a dog growling.

"Oh, don't be cross, Thomas!" Daisy continued, trying to look at him with imploring eyes, even if Thomas was endeavouring terribly to keep looking at the wall. "Come to the Christmas Lunch tomorrow with me! It will be loads of fun, I assure you! We've just decorated the tree, and there'll be lots of lovely food! Mrs Patmore was just talking about it, there's to be a goose and potatoes and gravy and pudding and-

"_Daisy_," Thomas cut right across the words. "I wish nothing less than to celebrate Christmas tomorrow. Bah, humbug I say! I will not come at all."

"Oh, but Thomas!"

"Good day," he said, by way of a dismissal.

"But-

"Good day,"

"Fine," said Daisy. "I don't know why you've got to be so horrible all the time. If William were here..."

She trailed off, as though realising what she was saying. Tears sprung to her young eyes, remembering the footman who had also been her husband even if just for a few minutes. She turned, rather abruptly, and left the room.

Thomas, now alone with his thoughts, felt briefly sorry for the young girl, but it was indeed very brief, for she was very quickly replaced by the housekeeper, Mrs Hughes, rattling a large collection tin.

"Ah, Thomas," she said when she saw him. "I thought I might find you here. Why on earth haven't you been in having fun with the others? Even Miss O'Brien is in there!"

Thomas chose not to answer this question, wondering why Mrs Hughes was being so absurd as to ask them in the first place. Him? Have fun with the others? That would be an unlikely occurrence. As for O'Brien, Thomas thought bitterly, he knew their scarcely acquaintance would not stretch as far as missing out on festivities on her behalf.

"Anyway," continued Mrs Hughes, jangling the tin once more. "I've just returned from the village. It is customary, at this time of year, to give a small donation to the village's charities. It is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and Destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, Thomas."

"Are there no prisons?" asked Thomas, lighting up a cigarette and surveying Mrs Hughes.

"Well, yes," said Mrs Hughes, uncertainly. "There are plenty of prisons,"

"And the workhouses?" demanded Thomas. "Are they still in operation?"

"They are. Still," returned Mrs Hughes, "I wish I could say that they were not!"

"The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?" said Thomas.

"Both very busy, I'm sure."

"Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course," said Thomas, smirking. "I'm very glad to hear it."

"No need for your cynics, Thomas!" said Mrs Hughes, curtly. "It's just that a few charities in the village are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink and means of warmth. They always choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. Now, what will you give?"

"Nothing!" Thomas replied.

"You do not wish to give _anything_?"

"I wish to be left alone," said Thomas. "Since you ask me what I wish, Mrs Hughes; that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the places I have already mentioned. They cost enough anyway! And those who are badly off must go there."

"Many can't go there; and many would rather die," said Mrs Hughes, sounding shocked at the harshness of Thomas's words.

"If they would rather die," said Thomas, a glint in his eye, "they had better do it, and do it quickly! Decrease the surplus population, and allow more money for the rest of us poor buggers."

"Thomas!" cried Mrs Hughes, scandalised.

"What?" he said. "It is true, and these are my opinions. I'm entitled to them at least, aren't I?"

"Indeed you are, but I'd be careful what you say, particularly if you have such strong opinions as these! However, very well. I shall not press you any further. You are obviously very stuck in your ways."

"Of course," said Thomas, nodding.

Mrs Hughes, realising her case was lost, passed through into another room, no doubt to jangle her collecting tin under another, more generous being. Thomas sighed, feeling miserable once more. The brief interaction with people to irritate had caused him at least some entertainment, and he was now back to staring at the wall. When it became apparent that he could do this no longer, he stood up, scraping the bench along the floor, and decided that he might as well retire upstairs to bed.

This, unfortunately, meant passing through the crowded dining room, where celebration was still in full swing. Daisy had been right; a pitiful tree stood in one corner, with a few measly baubles hanging from the shabby branches. Carols were now being chorused, and Thomas noticed Daisy was back to her joyful self, singing loudest of all;

"God rest ye merry gentlemen!  
>May nothing you dismay!"<p>

"Humbug," muttered Thomas, passing through the crowd to reach the stairs. He was careful to ignore just about everybody, in a similar way to they ignored him. He even gave no inkling of acknowledge to O'Brien, hurt that he had been abandoned in favour of a terrible tree and poor singing.

Thomas climbed the stairs slowly, the jolly sounds of those having fun eventually fading into nothing, and silence replacing them miserably. It was a lot colder up in the corridor, even than it had been downstairs and Thomas's breath fogged up in front of him. It was dark, too, and when Thomas reached the upstairs corridor, he was forced to light a candle in order to grope his way along to his bedroom.

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the handle on Thomas's door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Thomas had seen it, night and morning, during his whole life at Downton, having always had the same room. Let it also be borne in mind that Thomas had not bestowed one thought on William, since Daisy had mentioned him earlier in the day. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Thomas, having brought his candle down to locate the handle upon the door saw, not a handle, but William's face.

William's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the corridor were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Thomas as William used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part or its own expression. It was most definitely William's face though. Of that, Thomas was sure.

However, as he looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a handle once more.

To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But Thomas was not one to be easily frightened or spooked, and it was a general consensus that it would take more than this brief incident to scare him completely. And so, he internally gave himself a shake, lifted his candle to eye level, placed a hand upon the handle, and went into his room.

He did pause, momentarily, before closing the door behind him, taking the tiniest peep at the back of the door, as though expecting to see tufts of William's fair hair sticking up out of it. But, of course, there was nothing there, and Thomas, thinking himself stupid, shut the door with a resounding bang that echoed around the small room, and placed the candle upon the table, muttering "Humbug," as he did so.

However, before Thomas got into bed a little later that night, he could not help but do a quick scope of his room, just to check that all was ordinary. He had enough recollection of William's face to do that. But everything seemed perfectly fine, and Thomas decided that it was his own stupidity that was causing him to be flustered, and William's face might as well be plastered upon every object in the room. Satisfied, at least in part, Thomas threw himself down onto his bed. It was at this moment that he chanced to glance upon a bell upon the wall of his room.

It was an old, disused bell that inevitably used to be used for communication upstairs, but now had no purpose. It had hung in his room, forever unused, forever an ornament. And forever ignored. But Thomas noticed it this evening, and, no sooner had he noticed it, did it begin to ring, loudly and shrilly, causing Thomas to sit up in his bed, staring wide eyed at it. The ringing perhaps went on for half a minute, or even a minute, but for Thomas it felt like an hour. And then, just as soon as it started, the ringing ceased, and was replaced with a much worse sound of moaning and groaning, and a faint tapping, just outside the door.

"It's a humbug still!" cried Thomas aloud, clutching at his bed sheets. "I won't believe it! I won't-

And then the door swung open, revealing the pale and ghostly figure of William Mason. It was as though somebody had drained the colour from Thomas's already pale face. He stared, limp with shock, at the apparition. It was William completely. From the tall stature and straw like hair, dressed in his finest uniform to which they had no doubt dressed him in for the burial. But he was transparent, and when Thomas looked upon William's chest, he could see right through to the buttons at the back of his jacket. The illusion made him feel quite ill.

He could feel the chilling influence of the phantom, and was finding it very difficult to look away from the frosty eyes of his former colleague. The apparition was holding a large metal chain in his hand and, though it appeared to be restricting _him_ at all, there was no doubt that it was a heavy burden.

"H-how now!" cried Thomas, wishing he sounded braver. "W-what do you want from me?"

"Much." Replied the phantom. Thomas was sure it was Williams' voice, but it was more distant; a slight echo surrounded it.

"Who are you?"

"Ask me who I _was_."

"Alright then," said Thomas, wondering why he was agreeing to do what the apparition wanted. "Who _were_ you?"

"In life," replied the spirit. "I was your old partner, William Mason."

"Can you-can you sit down?" asked Thomas.

"I can," replied William.

"Then do it then!" demanded Thomas.

Thomas asked the question, because he didn't know whether a ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the ghost sat down on the wooden chair beside the bed as though he were quite used to it.

"You do not believe in me," said William, simply.

"No, agreed Thomas. "I bloody well do not."

"What evidence do you have of my existence, apart from your senses?"

"I haven't got any."

"Then, why do you doubt your senses?"

"Because," said Thomas, looking away from William's dead, cold eyes. "The slightest thing can affect them. A little disorder of the stomach, and they cheat you! You could be a bit of undigested beef, a blob of mustard, crumb of cheese. Oh yes, there's more of gravy than grave about you!"

As you can probably tell, it was not normally in the nature of Thomas to crack jokes, and this was a particularly pitiful attempt. His artificial laughter rang around the room, while the spirit made no effort to show emotion. The joke had been an actual attempt to settle the terror that Thomas was now feeling. William's ghost, dreadful as it was, carried also an infernal atmosphere about itself that was increasing the horror within Thomas.

"Oh, you terrible thing!" cried Thomas, turning wretchedly away. "Why do you bother me?"

"Do you believe in me now?"

"I do," said Thomas, miserably. "I must. But why do spirits walk the earth? And why do they haunt _me_?"

At this moment, the spectre chose to raise the mighty chain in its hand, and Thomas saw that it was made from a thick and heavy metal he did not recognise.

"Thomas," said the ghost, using his name for the first time that sent a chill down Thomas's spine. "I have seen the dead. I have walked among the spirits of those dead and passed. They wear the chains they forged in life."

The chain chose that moment to quiver dramatically, clanking about.

"They have made these chains," continued William, ignoring the clanking chain. "Link by link, yard by yard they have made them. They girded them of their own free will, and of their own free will they must wear them! Is this pattern upon this chain not familiar to you?"

Thomas said nothing.

"Or would you know, that the spirit of Thomas Barrow beholds a chain such as this one, and is ready to strike the second you pass through to the next life? Yours is a ponderous chain that you labour upon daily by your bad deeds and wrong doings!"

Thomas shivered and trembled. "But..." he said. "But why are you telling me this?"

"Because I do not wish you to live the next life as I have seen others live it, Thomas," replied the spirit.

"You speak some words of comfort to me?"

"It is not for me to give you words of comfort. It comes from other regions, and speaks from other men. Besides, there is little comfort to give a man of your kind. I only come to warn you."

"To warn me?"

"To warn you of a life you could have, should you not change your ways!"

And then the mood in the room changed drastically, and the chain in William's hand began to wind itself around Thomas's body, the dead weight clinging to him while fiery lights of no source flashed about. Thomas struggled against it, and the chain eventually slid away, leaving the room dim once more.

"It is your chain, Thomas," said William, quietly. Gentler now than he had been before. "You have forged this chain in life and continue to forge it now. You _must_ change. I cannot see you as I have seen others."

"But why are you warning me of this? Surely you would _want_ me to lead an afterlife of hell!"

"Not all of us wish horror upon our enemies, Thomas. As you may or may not have noticed, I _have_ no chains. For leading an honest and good life, is sure to clear the path for one's spirit life!"

"But what must I do?" cried Thomas, desperately. "How can I changed my ways?"

"You will be haunted," said William. "By three spirits."

Thomas's face dropped. The ghost, upon noticing said, "Without these spirits, you cannot hope to shun the path that others must treat daily." The chain clanked once more.

"Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls one," continued the spirit, now making to rise from the chair.

"Couldn't I take `em all at once, and have it over, William?" hinted Thomas.

"Expect the second on the next night at the same hour," said William, ignoring Thomas's words. "The third upon the next night when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!"

The apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the tiny window on one side of Thomas's room raised itself a little, so that when the spectre reached it, it was wide open. It beckoned Thomas to approach, which he did. When they were within two paces of each other, William's ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer. Thomas stopped.

Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear: for on the raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night.

Thomas followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. He looked out.

The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains like William had held; some few (they might be guilty governments) were linked together; none were free. The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever. Thomas spotted William now wandering around them, chainless and standing out consequently.

Whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshrouded them, he could not tell. But they and their spirit voices faded together; and the night became as it had been when he walked home.

Thomas closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It looked undisturbed. He tried to say "Humbug!" but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose; went straight to bed, and fell asleep upon the instant..


End file.
